


let me be your motivation

by nishtabel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24479632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: Dimitri’s heart stutters wildly, mind tripping over images of messy brown hair and warm skin. He sees freckles under dark lashes, a sly smile with a single dimple. He hasn’t thought of him in so long—it’s unfair for Sylvain to bring it up now.“You,” says Sylvain, leveling an accusing finger at Dimitri, “just thought of someone.”“I did not.”Sylvain gasps. “You so did! Flames, I knew it—”Or: Dimitri’s friends convince him to reach out to an old flame. Luckily for him, the King of Almyra is due for a visit.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Mercedes von Martritz, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 35
Kudos: 215





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hyacinthinium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyacinthinium/gifts).



> here it is: chapter one of the fabled “2-3k” giveaway fic! thank you so much to [hyacinthinium](https://twitter.com/hyacinthinium), the winner of my giveaway back in february, who has been more patient than i could ever have hoped. i hope this lives up to your expectations, and i hope you enjoy!
> 
>  **a quick note** : this fic will be 3 chapters, most of which i have finished. the rest will be up by the end of june. and, yes, the rating will change in chapter 3 ;)

It’s late when Mercedes joins Dimitri in the cathedral.

“I thought I might find you here,” she says. She steps in line beside him, head gently bowed, hands clasped in front of her. She makes no move to look at him, but he feels her attention all the same.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Dimitri replies, as he always does. This conversation has become familiar, scripted, over the last several weeks. “I thought this would be a good place to get some fresh air.”

He watches Mercedes nod, just on the edge of his vision. She’s always kind enough to choose his good side, and for that, he’s thankful. Others are never so conscious, so quietly accommodating.

“It is peaceful here.” Almost as if on cue, a soft breeze picks up around them. The rubble from the war has been cleared away, but the crater in the ceiling has not been fixed yet. The moon shines bright and cold above them, a brilliant white that reflects against the cathedral tile. Mercie seems to sway with the wind. “As you know, I used to come here often. Especially during the war.”

Dimitri nods.

“As much as I sought the goddess’s wisdom—as much as I prayed—I believe it was the solitude that eased me.” Mercedes says it calmly, airily, almost distantly. She is remembering. “Sometimes what we need most is a moment alone.”

Dimitri nods again. “I haven’t had enough of those, lately,” he admits. It’s been mere months since he learned to fight back against the demons in his mind, and even lucid as he is now, it is weary, tiresome work. His mind is rarely blank, seldom empty.

Mercedes hums beside him, her skirts rustling softly in the moon-lit breeze. Her face is half-shrouded by golden hair. “I feel for what you’ve gone through,” she says. “I know that I can never truly understand what it is that you’ve experienced, but I hope you know that I support you all the same.”

Hope, hot and unfamiliar, blooms latent in Dimitri’s chest. “Thank you.” It comes out as a croak. His hands clench at his sides, uncurl as he forces himself to breathe out. Even now, crests of emotion remain extremely difficult to ride, to weather.

They stand like that for a time. What Dimitri loves most about Mercedes is that she never pushes him, never touches him, never pries or picks at him. Instead, twice a week, she finds him like this: alone, silent, solemn. In moments like these, he feels not unlike the stone pillars that crumble around him—old and weary, scarred, trembling under the weight of the ceiling.

It is Mercedes who breaks the silence, her voice on a sigh, a whisper. She speaks carefully, her words an afterthought to her mind. “I’ve said this to you before,” she warns, “but I think it bears repeating.”

She pauses as though for permission, perhaps waiting for Dimitri to stop her. He does not.

She continues: “You’ve done an excellent job, rebuilding your kingdom. We’ve all seen it, and we’ve all helped where we can. Those of us who fought beside you...we can all appreciate how hard it is for you to transition so quickly from war general to savior king, especially with those demons weighing on your back. I know, almost as well as you do, that our ghosts never truly leave us.”

Dimitri nods, words stuck in his throat.

“That being said…” A sigh. “Dimitri, you cannot isolate yourself forever.”

“I am hardly isolated.” He meets with countless advisors, ambassadors, countrymen and citizens every day. He is drowning in companionship.

“I am the only _friend_ you’ve spoken to in days.” Mercedes’ voice is—not sharp, but crisper, harsher. She’s needling.

“Perhaps that is for the best,” Dimitri says. “After all, I am not the only one who needs healing from the war.”

She’s cross with him, he knows she is, but she remains gentle beside him, hands clasped in front of her belly. Her eyes rest on the worn mosaics that line the walls. “It is not _you_ they need healing from,” she says.

Dimitri feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle, rise; his shoulders hunch and his fingers clench without his permission. It has been so long since he’s had to obey anything other than instinct. “You don’t know that,” he murmurs, and forces a deep breath. He’s been working on this: on relaxing his body, overriding those anxious instincts picked up from years of living on the run. Of living as a beast.

“Perhaps not,” Mercedes muses, “but I know better than you do.”

When Dimitri glances out of the corner of his eye, she’s smiling. It’s thoughtful, pretty, unassuming and inoffensive. She is at ease by his side.

His hackles lower, and he sighs.

“What would you have me do?” he asks. “I can barely find time to myself these days, let alone teatime for all of you.” He doesn’t mean to be dismissive, but it’s true. Mercedes must know it.

“Not all of us,” she replies, still thoughtful. A breeze tickles the ruffled lace on her shoulders. “Just start with one or two.”

“As king, I cannot play favorites—”

“Ah,” she interrupts. “But as Dimitri, you can.”

“I cannot be two different people, Mercedes. Not for everything I’ve already put this country through.”

Mercedes cocks her head, hums. For a moment, she considers her hands. Then: “You cannot keep sacrificing yourself for Fodlan. You may be king, but you are also our friend.” Briefly, she looks at him. “My friend, too. And”—looking away—“we miss you.”

Dimitri’s heart thuds in his chest, adrenaline pumping eagerly through his veins. Everything in his body screams at him to run, to escape into the wild wilderness of Garreg Mach’s forest. He opens his mouth to speak, to negate Mercedes’ words, but for the first several tries, nothing comes out.

He clears his throat, breathes, closes his eye and imagines the triangle that Mercedes had taught him: Inhale, hold, exhale. Follow the length of the sides. Breathe.

When he opens his eye, he feels lighter. His heart still stutters in his chest, fingers still trembling, but when he speaks, his voice is even.

“Very well,” he says. “Who would you have me start with?”

* * *

“Thank you for inviting me,” says Ashe. He sits opposite Dimitri, beaming in the sunlight. His hair is pinned behind his ear, held in place by two gold-and-emerald pins—a wedding gift from Hilda.

“You’re welcome,” Dimitri replies. “Thank you for joining me.”

“Of course!” Ashe’s smile is as soft as ever, having lost its nervous edge towards the end of the war. Dimitri had seen him fight on the frontlines, snipe an Empire knight clean through the helmet at close range; there is very little that scares Ashe, now.

Dimitri wonders, briefly, if that is a good thing.

Clearing his throat against the shame building in his chest, Dimitri offers tea. “It’s—your favorite, I believe,” he says, gesturing to the teapot that sits between them. “Dedue told me you enjoyed mint.”

“I do, very much.” Ashe fills his cup, before nodding at Dimitri. “Would you like some?”

“I—ah. I suppose I should.” While his taste has been returning since the end of the war, it is slow going, and more than a bit unpredictable. The things he remembers liking as a child now taste far too sweet, too salty, too _much_. He wonders if mint will be the same.

Ashe fills Dimitri’s cup and waits for him to take the first sip. Dimitri obliges, awkwardly—the teacup is fragile in his fingers, thin and warm, and he brings it to his lips with such caution that he’s sure it takes half a minute. Ashe, to his credit, doesn’t comment.

Dimitri smells the tea before he tastes it, knows what to expect, but he can hardly keep himself from crying out when the flavor bursts over his tongue. “Oh,” he says, stupidly, staring down at where he’s lowered his tea. “That’s—oh.” It’s nice. It’s really nice.

“Do you like it?” Ashe asks, tentatively. He sips from his own cup. “Please don’t pretend on my behalf—”

“No, Ashe.” Dimitri waves him off, takes another curious drink. It’s so different from chamomile, he doesn’t know where to begin. It tastes like— _something_ , like fruit, almost, except it’s been so long since he’s tasted fruit, and mostly it just tastes like—“Mint. Hm. I do like it,” he says.

Ashe beams at him. “I’m so glad!”

They do not have long, but the conversation passes smoothly. Dimitri, remembering Mercedes’ guidance, asks about Dedue, about their inn, about Ashe’s cooking.

(“Do you have enough ingredients? I can always send more—”

“No, no, but thank you. We’re committed to growing our own!”)

Ashe, in turns, asks after Felix and Sylvain, after Mercedes, after Byleth. All are doing well, Dimitri says; Byleth has settled into their role with ease, and Mercedes is an easy, soothing presence for all those who visit.

“Have you heard from them lately?” Ashe asks, in reference to Felix and Sylvain. He takes a delicate sip of his tea, both hands wrapped around the cup as it steams. He looks happy, content. It looks good on him, Dimitri thinks.

“Not lately,” he says, and mirrors Ashe’s movements. The cup feels so small, so fragile in his hand. He feels—brutish compared to Ashe’s delicate grace. “Why do you ask?”

Ashe grins conspiratorially. “They recently passed through our inn,” he says, as though he’s sharing a bit of gossip. Maybe he is, Dimitri realizes. “Did you know they’re going on _honeymoon_?”

Dimitri’s heart sinks, and he immediately feels bad for it. He doesn’t fully understand the dread that unfurls in his belly, but he knows it’s wrong, knows his friends deserve better. He pushes it aside. “No,” he says, “I didn’t know.”

“Oh, it was supposed to be a secret,” Ashe says, waving his hand dismissively. “But Sylvain had a couple of drinks, you know, and Felix looked so happy—sitting on his _lap_ , Dimitri!—and Sylvain confessed.” A thoughtful pause. “Actually, I think it was more like bragging.”

“Sounds like your business has been, uh, lucrative.” Dimitri smiles, hopes it doesn’t look too pained. “When did they pass through?”

Ashe thinks for a moment. “Probably about a month ago,” he decides, before shrugging. “They were gone for about two weeks. To be honest, I have no idea where they went, but Sylvain got freckled, and Felix came back wearing his hair down.”

Dimitri’s gut twists again. _They deserve to be happy_ , he tells himself, even as something so very much like jealousy settles low in his stomach. “It sounds like they had a good time,” he says. His voice is surprisingly level.

Ashe smiles, and this time it’s kinder. “I think they did,” he says. “I never thought I’d see the day, but—I guess there’s hope for all of us.” He says the last part with a rather toward wink, taking Dimitri by surprise. He doesn’t know how to interpret it, so he doesn’t.

Time passes quickly, and Dimitri finds himself forgetting how easy it is to talk with Ashe. By the time the dinner bell tolls, Dimitri and Ashe have finished their tea, Ashe giggling into a scone and smiling brightly. It reminds Dimitri so much of their academy days.

Suddenly, Ashe glances over Dimitri’s shoulder. “Dedue!” he calls, and waves his arms excitedly. “Over here!”

“Is your husband joining us?” Dimitri asks, teasing. The idea of Dedue being someone’s husband is still very new to him, although hardly unpleasant.

“Only for a moment,” says Dedue, right behind Dimitri. “Ashe did tell me you were going to be having tea, so I thought I might stop by to say hello.”

The smile Dedue bears is warm and broad, teeth white against his sun-dark skin. Turned on Dimitri, it’s almost blinding.

Dimitri’s answering smile is solid, but nowhere near as easy. “Hello, Dedue.”

“It’s good to see you, your Highness,” Dedue replies. Dimitri still hasn’t broken him of the habit. “You look healthy and well.”

“I am,” Dimitri says, at the same moment Ashe says, “Doesn’t he?” They both laugh, Ashe for a bit longer than Dimitri.

Rounding the table, Dedue leans down to kiss the crown of Ashe’s head. “Hello, my love,” he says, and the warmth in his voice shatters something delicate inside of Dimitri’s chest.

“Hello, husband,” Ashe replies, and smiles for all the world.

In that moment, Dimitri feels the air being sucked from his lungs. “I, uh—well,” he says, “thank you for joining me, both of you, but I need to take my leave.” He stumbles to his feet, hardly graceful, but commanding enough.

“Oh,” says Ashe. “Well, I suppose it is getting late.” The crease between his eyebrows is shrewd, suspicious, but he doesn’t push further. “Thanks again for having me.”

“Thank you for making the time to visit,” Dimitri says.

“Of course.” Ashe smiles, a bit weaker, a bit worried. “If you’d ever like to visit—”

“I must be going,” he interrupts.

Then, nodding once, he flees.

* * *

Sylvain is next, although Dimitri is more suspicious of this one. Mercedes had insisted, though: “He was always one of your best friends,” she’d said, “and I know he misses you.”

Personally, Dimitri thinks Sylvain must have his hands full enough with Felix, but he welcomes Sylvain to tea all the same.

“Thank you for coming,” Dimitri says, to which Sylvain winks.

“You’re welcome,” Sylvain replies. He’s gotten softer, a bit gentler since the end of the war: his stubble fills out his jaw, previously gaunt from so many years of war, and his cheeks look fuller.

Dimitri finds himself oddly emotional over this, an unfamiliar _lightness_ stirring in his chest. He looks away. “How was your honeymoon?” he asks instead, busying himself with his tea. This time, he’d chosen bergamot, which he knows (now, after a few rather unsubtle questions) to be Sylvain’s favorite. At the very least, he can make this worth Sylvain’s while.

Sylvain smiles, the makings of crow’s feet crinkling around his eyes. He looks— _soft_. Dimitri can’t stop noticing it. “Oh, you heard about that, did you?” Sylvain laughs. “Felix tried to keep that a secret, but I don’t think we were very successful.”

Cruelly, traitorously, Dimitri’s mind whispers: _They wanted to keep it a secret from_ you. Dimitri winces before remembering himself, and forces himself to take a sip of tea. He decides that bergamot isn’t bad, but the crisp coolness of the mint had been more refreshing. This in itself is surprising—he’s not used to preferring one taste over another, and he finds himself taking another drink.

“What’s on your mind, Highness?” Sylvain asks, and Dimitri remembers now that Sylvain has always been more observant than his lecherous winks and smiles would suggest.

“I am—simply tasting,” Dimitri says. He places his teacup back on his saucer, suddenly uncomfortable with Sylvain’s attention. It feels very much like _scrutiny_. “But—we’re not here to talk about me. I wanted to catch up.”

Sylvain cocks a brow. “‘Catching up’ usually implies an equal exchange,” he says, and while there’s laughter beneath his words, Dimitri sees his eyes narrow. “I was hoping to hear how you’ve been.”

Dimitri considers his words carefully. “I have been… fine,” he says, settling. He knows Sylvain won’t buy it, but he prays to Sothis for this one small mercy. “Being King is not without its adjustments.”

“Goddess, I can only imagine,” Sylvain says, and he sounds genuinely sympathetic. “I bet they have you doing all sorts of paperwork, right? Make you dress up in those fancy royal outfits?”

Dimitri cracks a small smile. “Yes,” he admits, “they certainly do.”

“What’s the worst thing they’ve made you wear?” Sylvain asks, smile mirroring Dimitri’s own. “Honestly, I thought the Margrave uniform was bad, but at least they let me do what I want _some_ times.”

“I think the worst was—” Dimitri pauses to think. “This sounds terrible, but it was probably the coronation armor.” He feels guilty just for saying it, thinking, _Wearing that armor is a great honor, one that so few have survived_ —“I know it’s supposed to be this glorious, honorary thing,” he continues, a little bit forcefully, a little more pained, “but I would swear they’ve never really cleaned it.”

Sylvain wrinkles his nose. “Flames, I bet it smells bad.”

“And they sprayed me down with so much perfume—”

“I know!” Sylvain laughs. “I remember. Goddess, we could smell you from the dais.”

The smile that carves across Dimitri’s face feels foreign, _fake_ , almost undeserved. He squashes down the feeling for as long as he can, trying to revel in the joy that he feels right now. “Sometimes I feel like that should have been a sign,” he says. “I should have never put on that damn armor.”

He knows it’s a mistake once the words leave his mouth. Sylvain’s expression sours, laughter turning harsh as he looks down at his tea. “Fuck you, Dimitri,” Sylvain says, and it’s supposed to be teasing, nothing more than a jab, but Dimitri knows he _means_ it.

Dimitri blinks, and Sylvain’s gaze is serious. “Listen,” he says, searching Dimitri’s face. “I know you’re the king and all, and I have a lot of respect for that. Better you than the rest of us, right?” A self-deprecating smile, a bit of pain pinched in the corner of his eyes. “But watching you punish yourself like this…” He shakes his head. “It’s bullshit. We _fought_ for you, Dima. We fought to put you here, on this throne, in this country. All of Fodlan! Have you even stopped to consider _why_?”

Dimitri shakes his head mutely.

“Because you are our King, Dimitri.” There’s a fire in Sylvain’s eyes that’s difficult to look at. “You always have been. You always will be. _You_ , more than anyone, deserve this throne.”

“I did not choose to be born a Blaiddyd,” Dimitri murmurs, to which Sylvain cries:

“It has nothing to fucking do with that!” His fist slams on the table. “Fuck the Blaiddyd line. Fuck your crest. Fuck this entire fucking system! Look at me.”

Tentatively, shamefully, Dimitri does.

“You,” Sylvain says, “are a good man. You believed in us from the start. You trusted us, encouraged us, gave us a purpose. Do you think it was an accident that we followed you into battle? Do you think we went, _oh, oops, guess I’m here now!_ and just _casually_ put our lives on the line? Do you have any idea, Dimitri, how many times I had to watch my friends fall?”

Tears well in Dimitri’s eye, unbidden. Of course Sylvain would feel this way. Of course he’s angry, of course he would hate Dimitri for all he’s done—

“ _Look at me!_ ” Sylvain shouts. “We all put our lives on the line for you. Each time I picked up my lance, each time Felix grabbed his sword—you think we didn’t know what we were doing? You think you _made_ us do that? Fuck that, Dimitri. We made that decision every damn day. Every _fucking_ day, we believed in you. We followed you because we knew you would lead us through it. Because we loved you, Dimitri.” Sylvain swallows. “We still do. All of us. You have to know that.”

Dimitri opens his mouth to speak, even as the words get stuck in his throat. His mouth feels dry, rough like sandpaper, like he’s a fish on a hook and gasping for air.

At Dimitri’s open-mouthed gaping, Sylvain visibly deflates. He leans back in his seat, dragging one hand over his face with a loud sigh. “I’m sorry,” he says, ruefully. “That was—shit. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No,” Dimitri says, “you’re right to—”

“Goddess,” groans Sylvain, frustration warring with exhaustion in his voice. “I get it. You’re sad. You’re tired. You blame yourself. I’m no fuckin’ stranger to those feelings, either.” Sylvain shifts forward on another sigh, hands clasped in his lap below the table. “I’m just—we’re worried. About you. And you’re making me get all _sincere_ and—ugh. Whatever. Listen.” He meets Dimitri eye, level and true. “We fought for you because we wanted to. Flagellating yourself for the scars my father gave me, or the scars Mercie’s father gave her—or Annette, or Ingrid, or _Felix_ , for goddess’s sake—is fucking pointless. We want to be here. _I_ want to be here. You’re not holding us hostage.”

“‘Flagellating,’ huh?” Dimitri says, a traitorous smile twitching at the corners of his pursed lips. “I feel almost like Felix is here with us.”

Sylvain colors, even as a weak smile mirrors Dimitri’s. “We’re not done talking about you. Don’t try to change the subject.”

“I—” The words get caught in his throat, but for once, Dimitri manages to push them out. “I learned from the best,” he says, and something light and foreign blooms at his chest when Sylvain laughs.

“Fuck you,” says Sylvain. “I was making a point.”

Somberly, Dimitri says, “I know.”

They both sigh.

“Listen,” Sylvain says, “don’t you remember when we were kids? Before all of this— _shit_ happened? Before Duscur, before Miklan, before Glenn? We were friends. You, me, Felix, Ingrid. We were kids, and we were friends. And—” He stops to point at Dimitri, who’s started going teary-eyed. “I’m letting my guard down for you, Dima, so you’d better let me finish. You’re making me say this, okay? Are you ready? I want my friend back. I know you’re, like, the fucking King of Fodlan, and I know that you have things a lot more important than having tea with your childhood friend, but—shit, Dimitri. It fucking sucks to see you so down.”

Dimitri laughs, a punch of air. “To be honest,” he says, “you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

Sylvain quirks an eyebrow, and even Dimitri can read the wariness on his face. “Oh yeah?”

“Mercedes and I...had a similar conversation, several weeks ago.”

“Ah,” Sylvain says, nodding. “I should have known, that minx.”

“I know you only call her that as a term of endearment, Sylvain, but I do still find it rude.”

Sylvain shrugs. “’m not wrong, though. She’s hiding something in all of those skirts of hers. _Secrets_ , I bet.” He says it with a wink, and Dimitri can’t help but laugh.

“We all have secrets, Sylvain,” he says. “You, for example, hide them in that new beard of yours.”

“And you, your Highness, hide your secrets in that ugly fur cape of _yours_.” Sylvain smiles. “I can’t imagine what we’d find in there if we washed it.”

“It’s been washed,” Dimitri sniffs, defensive. “It’s just—old.”

“Mm,” Sylvain hums. He looks unconvinced, but lets it slide. “Alright, then. Let’s get to the fun part of teatime.”

“Was you yelling at me not the ‘fun part’?” Dimitri asks.

Sylvain flushes pink, color high on his freckled cheeks. “That was step one,” he says. “Step _two_ is where I give you some real advice.”

“Oh?”

“Well. A man can’t yell at his king without also being part of the solution.”

“How very Mercedes of you.”

“More and more every day,” Sylvain quips. “I should never have given her my address. She sends me at least three motivational letters a month.”

Dimitri laughs. “Glad to hear it’s not just me.”

“You, too?”

“She finds me in the cathedral most nights.”

“Goddess. I don’t know what I’d do if she could get me in _person_.”

“Become a better man, probably.”

“An odd compliment to pay yourself,” says Sylvain with a smile. “Anyway. Advice time, your Highness.”

Dimitri looks towards the sky in an exaggerated eye roll, the strongest he can muster through his pounding anxiety. “I can’t believe the day has finally come,” he deadpans. “I, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, am about to take advice from Sylvain Gautier.”

“Sylvain _Jose_ Gautier,” Sylvain corrects. “And no one said you had to take it. Just listen.”

“Very well, then. Please advise me.”

Grinning, Sylvain looks Dimitri up and down. “I can’t believe you haven’t thought of this already. Actually, I can, but—” He sighs, a bit wistful, a bit exaggerated. Chin propped on his hand, he says, “We need to get you laid.”

“No.”

“Hear me out!”

“Sylvain—”

Sylvain raises his hands in front of him, defensive and placating. “Hear me out,” he says again, and he looks serious enough for Dimitri to slowly, carefully nod. “Good. Listen. I’m not saying you should get it on with just anyone. I’m not dumb enough to suggest you should just— _send_ for someone. Although,” he says as an aside, “that is an option if all else fails.”

“No.”

“Right. Anyway.” Sylvain nods at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a crush! Come on, we went to school together. We were practically roommates—”

“If you mean to say that we shared a single, _very thin_ wall—”

“That is _exactly_ what I mean,” Sylvain says. “Here’s the deal. I know you can go to Mercie for depression shit, and Ingrid for—goddess, I guess for planning shit. Dedue’s great for hugs and a gentle shoulder when you need one. Ashe has that whole ‘I’ll make you believe in true love again!’ thing going for him, too.”

Dimitri snorts. “Sylvain,” he says, chiding.

“I’m not wrong,” says Sylvain. “You’ve got a lot of great friends, Dimitri. But here’s the thing. No one—and I mean this, okay?— _no one_ is as good as I am when it comes to sex.”

“We are _not_ talking about this.”

“We are.” Sylvain levels him with a stare that is criminally serious. “You’re the king, and you deserve better than your hand. Goddess knows it’s too rough, anyway.”

“Are you—”

“ _Yes_. Yes, I am serious. The sooner you let me finish, the sooner we can stop talking about your dick.”

Dimitri swallows. “Fine,” he says. His cheeks are on fire, bright and cherry-red.

Sylvain smiles. “Good.” He leans forward, lowering his voice as he does. He’s slipping into conspiratorial mode. Gossip-with-Hilda mode. Dimitri narrows his eyes, but listens anyway. “All I want is to help you reconnect with a childhood crush.”

“My... _childhood_ ,” Dimitri says, “wasn’t much of one.”

Sylvain waves him off. “Alright, fine. Someone from our Garreg Mach days, then.”

Dimitri’s heart stutters wildly, mind tripping over images of messy brown hair and warm skin. He sees freckles under dark lashes, a sly smile with a single dimple. He hasn’t thought of him in so long—it’s unfair for Sylvain to bring it up _now_.

“You,” says Sylvain, leveling an accusing finger at Dimitri, “just thought of someone.”

“I did not.”

Sylvain gasps. “You so did! Flames, I knew it—”

Dimitri’s heart hurts, just a little. There’s no way Sylvain could understand how—how _impossible_ it would be for Dimitri to rekindle his crush. If he couldn’t do it then, back at their careless days of Garreg Mach, how can he do it now, as the King of Fodlan?

“Sylvain,” he says, before realizing that he does not have any more words to offer. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again; makes an aborted half-noise before staring down at his clasped hands on the table. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do.”

“No— _no_ ,” says Sylvain, firmer now. “Don’t close off on me. Stop that, Dimitri! I won’t pretend I know who it is, but unless they died during the war—”

Dimitri shakes his head.

“Then who wouldn’t want to receive a letter from the king? Come on! Who would refuse you?”

“I won’t have someone sleep with me just because they have to,” Dimitri sniffs. “That wouldn’t be fair of me.”

Sylvain sighs. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying—alright. Here.” He seeks Dimitri’s gaze, brows drawn tight. “Call me a romantic, or whatever. _But_ —and I mean this, just like I’ve meant all of this—I find it hard to believe that your crush wouldn’t be reciprocated.”

Again, Dimitri shakes his head. “You can’t possibly know that.”

“Maybe not for sure, no. But if a guy like me can get someone to love them—”

“Felix is different. He’s...he’s always loved you.”

“Ouch,” says Sylvain, but still smiles. It’s soft at the edges, a little lovelorn. “Who’s to say you’re not in the same boat?”

“You’re assuming a lot about my situation.”

“Maybe.” Sylvain shrugs. He brings his cup to his mouth and takes a long sip of tepid tea, before slowly placing the cup back on the saucer. His mouth is a thin line, his gaze serious. “Dimitri,” he says, staring at his teacup. “I spent so much of my life pushing Felix away. People tease Felix all the time—‘oh, you’re so uptight!’ or, ‘I don’t know how Sylvain puts up with you!’ But it’s me. You and I are alike enough for me to admit it. Felix, after everything I put him through—after all the times he watched someone new slip from my bedroom, after all the times I laughed him off and left the tavern with someone else—he’s still here. Goddess knows I—I don’t deserve it. But he’s here. We’re fucking married. _He_ married _me_. Felix married me, Dimitri.”

There’s a long pause, during which Dimitri keeps his eye trained on his hands where they’re folded in front of him. He can’t bring himself to watch the bobbing of Sylvain’s throat, the cloudiness of his eyes.

“My point is—” Sylvain’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat with a rough cough. “My point is that you can’t make that decision for someone else. Felix deserves the world over my sorry ass, but even I’m not fool enough to try to keep him from what he wants.”

A stubborn smile tugs at Dimitri’s lips, shallow laughter caught just behind his teeth. He coughs, just once. “That would be a foolish move, wouldn’t it,” he says.

Sylvain smiles, just a little sad. “I tried it, didn’t I? And he still chased me down.” He lets the words settle, lets the vulnerability sit raw between them. Dimitri is shocked to realize that they both need it. Then, with a deep inhale: “Reach out to him, okay? The worst he can do is say no.”

 _He could do a lot worse than that_ , Dimitri thinks, but Mercedes’ voice mitigates his own. “You can’t keep avoiding things just because something bad _might_ happen,” she always says, and Dimitri know it’s true, but still struggles to accept it.

Maybe he ought to try, anyway.

“Alright,” he says quietly. He makes himself say it out loud, fighting against the anxiety that threatens to choke him. “Alright. I’ll try.”

Sylvain blinks. “‘Alright’?” he asks, eyes wide. “Shit, I didn’t think—” He cuts himself off with a bright, shocked laugh. “I’ll take it. You know, Dimitri, you’re gonna be so happy you followed my advice. I bet Claude is just waiting—” Sylvain stops mid-sentence, mouth snapping shut as his face pales. “Fuck. I wasn’t supposed to say that.”

Dimitri blinks once, twice, heart stuttering in his chest. “I never said,” he says, because he can’t bring himself to say the rest. To admit it out loud. Then, slowly: “Sylvain...”

“Oops! Well, look at the time,” says Sylvain, placatingly putting his hands up as he stands. “You know, I’ve really overstayed my welcome. So sorry! I’ll be going now.”

“Sylvain—!”

“See you around, your Highness!” Sylvain calls, quickly disappearing around the corner. “Hope everything goes well!”

 _This was planned_ , Dimitri thinks, a bit winded. His mind reels. _Sylvain planned this_. Then, with a growing certainty: _Mercedes put him up to this._

He’ll find them both—later. But first, he has a letter to write.


	2. Chapter 2

Writing the letter is easier said than done, Dimitri finds. He struggles to express himself during regular conversation; rekindling a long-lost crush seems impossible at best. Even as he writes, his mouth feels dry. He thinks—how does he begin the letter? How does he address Claude, now King of Almyra?

_Your Majesty_ , he tries, but no, that feels too much like a missive. _King Claude_ , then, he thinks; it looks better on the paper, but he cannot bear the thought of spilling his guts at the feet of a fellow king, no matter the legal equality. With a rattling sigh, he settles on Claude’s own name—how Dimitri had known him, had addressed him at the Academy. It is that Claude, after all, he’s addressing.

With a shaking hand, he begins:

_Claude von Riegan,_

_I apologize for writing you so abruptly. I worry you will think it odd, as we were never especially close during our Academy days, but I find that lately, you have been on my mind. It is...unlike me, perhaps, to reach out, but ~~upon the insistence of my friends, I have been making a point to~~_

_Dear Claude,_

_I apologize for writing so abruptly. Perhaps you’ll think it odd, as we were never close during our Academy days, but I’ve found myself thinking of you recently. ~~In the words of Sylvain Gautier~~_

_Claude,_

_Forgive me, but my curiosity begs me ask—how are you? You have been on my mind recently. ~~I understand you must be busy with your reforms—I have been following them, eagerly and with great interest—but if you should have time to reply, I would be happy. While we may not be able to return to our Academy days, I feel as though my life is better with~~_

_~~Claude,~~ _

~~_From one king to another—how are you? How is Almyra? Fodlan is_ ~~

_Khalid,_

_I hope it is not too presumptuous of me to write you so abruptly, but if I am being honest, you have been on my mind. I fear that if I do not write you now, I will never do it. I find myself hoping that you remember that shared evening as vividly as I do: after hours in the library, studying by the light of a single candle, so convinced that Seteth would find us. We were never close outside of the library, but I always felt that within those four walls, you were the only person who truly understood me._

_I have not forgotten the trust you placed in me, when you told me your Almyran name. I hesitate to use it now, after so many years, but after struggling to begin this letter, I believe it is the only way._

_Forgive my boldness, but I miss our late-night talks. Perhaps you will say that I miss having something to myself, and maybe that is true; you know as well as I do that solitude is hard to come by as a king. But, if I may say so, I believe the thing I miss most is you._

_If it is not too much trouble, I would love to hear from you._

_Yours,_

_Dimitri_

By the time he signs his name, the candle is flickering weakly in its own oil, burned through and hardly more than an ember. Before he can change his mind—before he can scratch it out, crumple it up and toss it to the fire like those before—he folds it, seals it, and turns away. He cannot afford to rethink his words; if he has learned anything, it is that they will never come easily to him. Instead, he will have to trust that Claude knows him well enough to understand the meaning of his letter.

He will send it first thing in the morning, and he will not dwell on it.

* * *

He dwells on it.

Three days pass, and he dwells. He _regrets_ , more than anything; how could he have been so foolish, to presume so much of Claude? Sylvain’s words had gotten to him, had managed to stir a terrible kind of hope in him, and that hope is so painful in the face of his shame.

Dimitri spends his days anxiously, restlessly, pacing the halls of Fhirdiad’s palace like a wraith. Mercedes stops him twice on Tuesday, a gentling hand on his shoulder and a cool burst of healing energy. It works for a moment, always a quiet settling in his belly and two deep, blessed breaths. As soon as her footsteps disappear around the corner, however, Dimitri finds his hands curling into fists again, rough-bitten nails carving crescents into his palms.

On the fourth day, the anxiety is more manageable—not because it is any less, but because it’s so constant that he finds he can ignore it for brief periods. He manages to nap after lunch, something he considers a victory even though he wakes with a violent start. He feels Mercedes’ eyes on him throughout the day.

Day five and six bring no news, and Dimitri oscillates rapidly between eerie calm and uncontrollable, unpredictable thoughts. The ghost of Claude’s disdain follows him around the castle, his mocking words a smog that makes it difficult to breathe. _You actually thought we were friends_ , he would say, sneering. He whispers it directly into Dimitri’s ear. _You think a real king would want anything to do with your pathetic charade? You let the professor do all the work while you wasted away in a lonely, dark corner of the cathedral. I can still smell the filth on you._

Dimitri makes a face at that, torn between genuine hurt and resignation. There is a part of him that knows Claude would never say those things; it’s the same part of him that Mercedes has trained relentlessly, shaped delicately over months of midnight cathedral meetings. He knows well enough now when his mind is toying with him, but he doesn’t find it any easier to numb the pain of it.

Day seven, and Mercedes invites him to dinner. He knows better than to turn down her invitation, as much as his mind rails at him to do so. If he’s being honest, there’s a part of him—a softer, childlike side—that longs to see her. He needs to be soothed.

Mercedes doesn’t hesitate, once he sits down. As he’s bringing a bite of charred fish to his lips, she says, “You seem nervous, lately.”

Dimitri chews, swallows. A bit of spice pricks at his tongue, but he tastes little else. “Yes,” he says, because it would be worse to lie. He’s trying to be good— _wants_ to be good around her. Mercedes makes it seem worthwhile.

Mercedes takes a bite of asparagus, chewing thoughtfully. She’s let her hair grow, just a little; it catches on her shoulder as she glances up at him. “If you’re not feeling up to it, I won’t make you,” she says, “but I do think it would help to talk about it.”

Dimitri nods, shoving another bite into his mouth. He savors the charred texture on his tongue, the sweet, smooth cleave of the fish. “I...know I should,” he says. “It’s—hard.” He searches for words, even as they evade him. It feels like trying to catch a cloud, a puff of smoke.

Mercedes hums. “You seemed happy, after your conversation with Sylvain.”

“I was.” Was he? Happiness has always been hard to remember, to grasp. “We had a good conversation.”

“Did he push you too hard?” she asks.

“No,” says Dimitri, even though it had felt like it at the time. “No, he—we just. Talked. About—you know.”

Mercedes smiles at him, eyes mirthful. She’s always been more playful than others give her credit for. “I don’t know, actually,” she says, poking innocently at the fish on her plate. “I was hoping you would tell me.” It’s a half-lie—servants gossip, and Sylvain had been loud. Mercedes isn’t a fool; she keeps an ear close to the ground. She has to know.

Begrudgingly, Dimitri tells her anyway. “We talked a little bit about Felix. Sylvain is...very happy with him. It’s a good match.”

Mercedes nods, waiting for him to continue.

“It’s hard to find a match like that. Someone who—who accepts you. All of you. I have never presumed I would find someone like that, but—”

“But?” Mercedes prompts.

“But,” Dimitri says, “Sylvain recommended that I...try.”

Mercedes chews thoughtfully, fork still raised halfway to her mouth. She looks so delicate, so _kind_ , and Dimitri has a moment of fear when glancing at her wrists, but—no, she’s fine, and so is he, and he’s seen her in battle. He’s seen her bury the dead.

“Dima,” she says, calling him back to their dinner. She doesn’t address the shadow that clouds his eye, but she does pause, head cocked. When Dimitri shakes his head, she nods. “I think that’s an excellent idea,” she continues, bright. “You know, it took some time for Sylvain to win Felix’s hand, as well.”

“Did it?” Dimitri asks, because he hadn’t honestly noticed. “I thought they were just—” He cuts himself off with a laugh, self-deprecating. “To be honest, I thought they’d simply...fought one day, and gotten married the next.” He flushes. “It sounds silly, now that I’ve said it aloud.”

Mercedes’ laugh is warm, like the twinkling of bells. “Your timeline isn’t totally wrong,” she admits, “but there was a bit of formal courtship, somewhere in the middle.”

Dimitri’s anxiety flares for a moment, just slightly, just enough to light a burning in his chest. He settles just as quickly. “I suppose that makes sense,” he says.

“Everything happens in its own time,” Mercedes says, not quite a reprimand, but serious enough to catch Dimitri’s ear. “Everyone works at their own pace. We all have our own traumas to heal.”

“I know that,” Dimitri says. “Sylvain said—almost the same thing, actually.”

“Did he?” Mercedes smiles, and there’s a spark in her eyes that piques Dimitri’s curiosity. “He’s wiser than I thought, that one.”

“It’s all your influence,” Dimitri says, chuckling. “He was quick to give you the credit.”

“Smart of him. He knows I’ll track him down.”

They share a moment of laughter, soft around the edges. Words come easy with Mercedes; there is comfort in knowing that Dimitri won’t keep himself from sleep tonight, rolling over in the shame of saying the wrong thing.

Mercedes collects their plates at the end of the meal, despite Dimitri’s insistence that, “Really, Mercedes, I can carry my own plate.” She quiets him with a hum and a smile and says that she needs to speak to the cook, anyway, about a missing shipment.

“Before you go, though,” she says, plates stacked in her hands, “I just wanted to say—I’m proud of you, Dimitri.”

Dimitri colors, hot and bright. He feels the burning in his ears. “Oh, I—thank you,” he replies, years of etiquette training forcing the _thank you_ from between his nervous jaws.

“It’s no problem,” she says, “and there’s no need to thank me. It’s just so nice to see you at dinner, now. I think, had I asked a month ago, you would have turned me down.”

“Oh,” Dimitri says. “I—”

“Please don’t apologize.” She’s still smiling, small and kind, but there’s steel in her gaze, and Dimitri’s words die on his tongue. “I’m just happy you’re beginning to heal.”

Dimitri swallows. “Thank you,” he says again, tongue fat in his mouth. He searches for more words, any other way to express the rapid buzz of his brain, but—“Thank you.”

“Of course!” Mercedes beams, easily shifting back into her holy woman’s persona. As she’s walking away, she calls, just loud enough, “I hope he replies soon!”

* * *

The letter arrives at noon the following day. Impatient and terrified, Dimitri rips the seal open in the aviary, surrounded by gentle hoots and the clicking beaks of newborn birds.

_Dimitri,_

_Imagine my surprise when my spymaster—a man you may know as Lorenz Hellman Gloucester—knocked on my door at three a.m. to personally deliver a letter from the King of Fodlan. He was convinced it was a forgery; “how else,” he said, “would he have known your name?” He insisted it must be an inside job, a ploy to get a rise out of me. Why would Dimitri, King of Fodlan, Savior King, send a message on thin, wrinkled parchment?_

_You’ll be happy to know that I convinced him otherwise, although not before he had the seal tested for poison or—a rather wild idea—the ink for explosive properties. “It may explode if you burn it,” he said, and really, I think I’ve trained him too well. As far as I know, I am the only person in possession of explosive ink. (That’s just between us, though—Lorenz needn’t know.)_

_I had wondered if you would write me. You might laugh—in fact, I insist you do—but I have often thought about the parallel positions in which we’ve managed to find ourselves. To think you, the Crown Prince of Faerghus, would ascend to lead the whole of Fodlan a mere five years after we met...while I, little Prince Khalid, schemed and scraped my way to the Almyran throne. When we entered the library that night, all those years ago, I don’t think you knew who I was. Of course, I don’t think you cared. You were always so genuine in that way. Somehow, you looked at me and saw a messy little boy, muddy and still covered in grass stains from the field. And I saw hints, I think, of the boy you were before Duscur._

_I have not forgotten. I promised you a secret in exchange for a kiss, and you, so sweet and trusting, accepted my deal. Never mind that my secret was useless, or that I was a terrible kisser. You didn’t complain about either._

_At the risk of sounding like you, Dimitri—I find myself thinking, between my many meetings and councils and political schemings, of what could have been. Little use dwelling on it now, of course, as we are both very important men with very important titles, but I do wonder if there is a world where we could have continued our library adventures._

_Perhaps we should try again. You were, of course, always the best part of them; I cared very little about the books._

_Yours,_

_Khalid_

Dimitri reads it quickly, then again, more slowly—skims his favorite parts, too excited to keep his eyes on any one passage for too long. His heartbeat thunders in his ears, wild and heavy, and his hands shake where he holds the paper. It is… unbelievable, actually, that Claude had received his letter and replied, whole-hearted and kind, and—

_Perhaps we should try again_ , he reads, the words echoing in his head. He feels as though his head might float away from his body, buoyed by so many buzzing words.

Perhaps, he thinks in a moment of giddiness, they should.

* * *

When Dimitri writes back, he decides to be honest. Genuine. It requires him to access a part of himself that he’s not acknowledged for a very long time, but there’s an odd fluttering in his chest when he rereads Claude’s letter: _You were always so genuine in that way_. Was he? He wonders.

It can’t hurt to try.

_Claude_ , he writes, before shaking his head. Honest. He needs to be honest. He grabs a new piece of parchment before writing:

_Khalid,_

_Don’t tell him I said this, but I am surprised you made Lorenz your spymaster. Perhaps I was too busy worrying about my own house, but I never paid him much mind. Then again—I suppose that is what makes a good spymaster, isn’t it? I do hope he’s serving you well; I would be terribly upset ~~to find you had fallen for another Dimitri in my absence~~ if someone else had wooed you first. And under my name, no less._

_Let me be frank, since subtlety has never been my strength. ~~I do not know how it would work, between two kings, but my intent is~~ _

_~~While at Garreg Mach, you were~~ _

~~~~_You spoke in your letter as though you tricked me into that kiss. While I cannot claim to be as calculating as you, you should give me more credit—I have never been, nor am I now, especially interested in your secrets. Why, then, would I have agreed to such a bargain? ~~Surely you can parse it out.~~ At the tender age of eighteen, ~~you must know that there was very little else on my mind~~_

Frustrated, Dimitri grips his quill tightly; it gives a warning crack before splitting in his hands. “Flames,” he murmurs, and uses the front of his tunic to wipe the ink from his hand. He only keeps one other quill at his desk, and it’s mostly for decoration. The peacock feather had been a gift from Dedue at the end of the war, and, to be honest, Dimitri is afraid to use it.

He sighs. He knows he must write back tonight; if he doesn’t now, he never will. The fear will eat him alive.

Slowly, carefully, he grabs the quill. It’s beautiful, he thinks: blues and greens and flashes of gold, a winking eye at the plumed tail. He cannot break this one. With a steadying nod, Dimitri grabs a new piece of parchment and spreads it out on the desk.

_Khalid,_

_At the risk of him reading this letter, I must say I’m surprised you’ve made Lorenz your spymaster. He must serve you well enough, although I hope he was not too disappointed to find the letter did, in fact, come from me. I had originally chosen nicer paper, but, to be honest, I’ve developed an unfortunate habit of breaking quills, and I’m very quickly running out of paper._

_At this point, I can only hope you will find my bluntness more charming than appalling. This may surprise you, but I am no more good at being subtle than I was at seventeen—in fact, I may be less so. Some say I have grown into a veritable beast of a man, and while I do try to play the Game, there is a reason I have so many advisors. It is because none of them are here to advise me on this letter that I am on my last parchment, and my last quill._

_Let me be brief: I am...lonely. Because I have written it, I cannot scratch it out, because I cannot rewrite this letter. You see the kind of bind I am in. Even after being pulled back from the brink of death by our dear professor—Archbishop Byleth, I suppose I must now call them—I have been caught isolating myself and, in the words of Sylvain Gautier, “self-flagellating.” (Please do not take him literally—I realize now that I should not have quoted him directly.) It was suggested to me that I reach out to an old friend, and while I did so, I found myself thinking of you._

_A part of me longs to say, “Please do not mistake my intentions,” as I was bred to do—I was, after all, raised in royalty, shaped and trained from birth to take the throne. The small part of me that understands “tradition” begs me to be coy, to keep my cards close to my chest. I have a feeling that you would recommend the same._

_Luckily for us both, I am a bit impulsive, and as I am running out of room on this paper, I must say what I mean. If you will have me, Claude von Riegan—Khalid, if I may—I intend to court you. As I have said above, my advisors know nothing of this plan; I do not have any political motivations. I hope you will believe me when I say that I cherish your friendship, and that while it has been years since I felt them, I can still feel the ghost of your lips on mine._

_~~I hope you will accept my offer.~~ At the risk of sounding too informal, I hope you feel the same. I cherish what few moments we stole together._

_Yours,_

_~~Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd~~ Dima_

* * *

Dimitri doesn’t have to wait long for Claude’s reply, although the week Dimitri spends pacing and haunting the halls of the palace feels torturously slow. He receives a letter halfway through the week, and while he knows it’s too soon to be from Claude, the disappointment he feels upon seeing Sylvain’s insignia—crestless, no more than an elegant _S_ pressed into the wax—makes him feel worse than he had before. It’s not that he doesn’t want to hear from Sylvain, he reasons, but the disappointment of the letter not being from _Claude_ is absolutely crushing. He feels—like a bad friend, ungrateful, and it’s a feeling he can’t shake for the rest of the evening.

Five days after sending his letter, Dimitri receives Claude’s reply. He doesn’t dare open it in the hall, not around so many prying eyes and curious, ever-roaming stares; instead, he spirits away to his quarters, scroll tucked haphazardly beneath his robes.

Once he’s latched the door behind him, he reads:

_Dima,_

_I believe this is where I say something along the lines of, “You honor me, your Grace.” How does one address a fellow king? “Your Grace” hardly seems fitting enough. Perhaps a simple, “your Highness”? Or—yes, this is it: I shall upgrade “your Princeliness” to “your Kingliness.”_

_I imagine by now you’re absolutely dying to know what my answer is. It was a bit cruel of me to make you wait, wasn’t it? Very well, Dimitri—your Kingliness—I suppose I must accept. The seventeen-year-old boy whose heart you stole so many years ago demands I agree. Under one condition: I intend to formally accept in person. Luckily for you, my delegation is due for a visit to Fhirdiad within the month. I hope they won’t mind overmuch if I tag along._

_Of course, if we are to do this right, we now have many obstacles in front of us. However shall we tell the masses? Goddess, the look on Lorenz’s face alone—do you think I will survive it? “There are procedures,” he’ll say; “gifts to be given, oaths to swear.” He’ll absolutely ruin me for entering a formal courtship without his knowledge. (I say that as though he is not reading this letter—I understand your position, Lorenz, but I must ask that you be somewhat more subtle about it.)_

_We can discuss the rest in person. I am eager to hear your voice, of course, but my hands are so tired of writing, and there is a certain weariness that comes with knowing that my words will never be fully private. I know you must feel the same. How did you manage, when you were younger? Or do I simply have a nosier staff than you do?_

_I look forward to getting to know you again, Dimitri. Perhaps we can try trading secrets again—I’ve picked up a few more since our time at the Academy. My price is the same._

_Yours,_

_Khalid_

* * *

“He’s accepted,” blurts Dimitri, half out of breath. He’s been standing in the cathedral for minutes, _hours_ , waiting for Mercedes to find him, and—“I asked to court him. Claude. And he’s—accepted.”

Mercedes’ smile is as bright as the moon itself. “I’m so happy for you,” she says, and in this moment, Dimitri finds he can accept it. “Do you wish to tell me about it?”

To his surprise, Dimitri finds that he does. He’s been riding on the high of it for hours; after ripping open the Reigan seal, he’d reread Claude’s words dozens of times, mind working to accept the truth of them. He stands, now, convinced of a truth he’d never thought possible: He, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, will formally court Claude von Riegan, former heir to the Alliance and King of Almyra.

“He’s a king,” Dimitri says, nonsensically. “Did you know that?”

Mercie nods. “I had heard,” she says. “None of us knew at the Academy, of course. But—there was always something _regal_ about him, don’t you think?”

“I… yes.” Dimitri thinks of the way Claude had carried himself, chin tipped, one brow raised. He had always been calculating, if not strictly royal; the curve of his jaw as he’d smiled, so seldom honest, had forced a shiver in Dimitri’s knees more than once. “He seems well-suited to the role.”

Mercie hums beside him. “When is he visiting?” she asks.

“Next month,” Dimitri answers, unwilling to ask how she’d _known_. Mercie always knows—if not due to Annette’s spies, then based on intuition. Dimitri had stopped questioning it long ago. “He’s visiting with his delegation.” A pause, and then: “He intends to formally accept in person.”

“That’s wonderful,” says Mercedes, leaving no room for disagreement. Dimitri is always surprised that he _believes_ her. “We have much to plan, then.”

For a moment, Dimitri splutters. “I—well.” Planning has never been his strong suit, and he’s not entirely sure that Mercie would want him to take the reigns. He’s not—“I’m not…”

“I’ll help, of course,” says Mercie, calm as ever. Her voice is as soft as the breeze that catches their cloaks. “I’m sure Annette would be more than happy to help me bake a few tarts.” She steps out ahead of him, and when he doesn’t immediately follow, she turns back to look at him with a raised brow. “We haven’t got all day, Dimitri,” she says, voice clipped even as she laughs. “If you’re going to woo a man, you’ve got to do it _right_.”

Numbly, dazedly, Dimitri nods. “Yes,” he says, grasping for confidence. Everything feels so— _unreal_. “Yes, you’re right.” With a final, decisive nod, he follows after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter, folks! thank you all for your patience, as always 💕

**Author's Note:**

> thank you all so much for reading, and for your patience during my finishing this fic! i hope it’s as fun for you to read as it has been for me to write. and, you know, comments are always appreciated 😉💕
> 
> if you’d like, you can find me on twitter at [@nishtabel](https://twitter.com/nishtabel).


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